Monday, May 31, 2010

Wish I was like my six-year-old student Anshul. And, not have an exact sense of time, and distance.
His mum has left for Amsterdam, yesterday, for three months.
He doesn't understand that Amsterdam is a different country altogether, far away. For that matter, he still doesn't understand the concept of countries and places. For him, his birth-town Bangalore is the name of an amusement park in Kolkata.
Amsterdam, is the name of the new office that Mamma has joined.
And three months is hundred hours. Hundred is the largest possible number for him. So, Mamma has to work for many, many hours in this office. How many? Hundred.
Now I know what they meant by "Illiteracy is bliss."
Wish I didn't know how to measure time and distance. Or do I?

As if we haven't had enough. As if we haven't.
Every couple you meet on the streets have their share of problems.
"His parents won't allow."
"She doesn't give me my space."
"He doesn't allow me to talk to guys."
"Her caste is different."
"He still loves his ex."
"She has different dreams."
"He wants to stay here. I want to go abroad."
"I love him too much. He/She doesn't love him that much!"
"We fight too much. We won't be happy together."
If love is universal, maybe so are the problems in love? Show me one couple wherein none of the two have any issues(=problems).
Yet, people adjust. People accept. Even if they think, that they don't, actually they do. A little bit of protesting, and whining, a few sleepless nights or anger and tears. Oh, that's so human. But, we all resign to fate, eventually. We "go with the flow". We do very little to go against the flow. We do very little to fight back what we think is our so-called fate.
Few, do. We put them up on pedestals of "true love", and be satisfied with the explanations that they were probably stronger. Or worse, they had less to worry about, probably.
What does it take to believe that there's nothing called pre-destined? I want it, I'll go and grab it. I don't care if my hands start bleeding in the effort. I will NOT take that as an omen, that maybe, it isn't meant for me. Chuck them. Elders, yeah, they'll say that they've witnessed more sunrises, and more sunsets than us. But, at the end of the day, they are not in our shoes. Any two people can't have similar stories. Even if they do, why should I care to believe it and resign myself to the story?
To all my juniors, I'm sorry I ever told you that you were on the wrong path. I'm sorry I ever told anyone that he/she had more to learn, more to understand. Sorry to all those whom I called immature, from my own narrow perspective. Go ahead, prove it that you're on the right. Don';t blame anyone, please. Because my elders will scold me, if you do so. And I'm myself on a journey of "prove-myself-against-everyone". So, do the same, and encourage me further.
I think, therefore I am. You think, therefore you are.
Don't ever let someone else do the thinking for you.
You are as good as you think you are. 100% percent.

A: Damn, I want a boy-friend.
B: Okay, you’ll have one.
A: Oh no, please, don’t try those escorts for me.
B: No, I’ll find you someone who really loves you.
A: No, you can’t. Get me Z instead.
B: But I can’t talk to him. Can I?
A: Of course not. Forget it.
B: No, I’ve vowed to give you everything you want. I will. I’ll gift you a boy-friend this birthday.
A: You’re not talking to Z. And you’re not asking anyone to pretend to love me.
B: I’ll talk to Z. But, not as me, myself. I’m an expert at that, you know.
A: What will you do? Please don’t create another mess.
B: Let’s see what I can do. But I’ll give you what you want. This very birthday of yours.
A: My birthday is one whole month away.
B: And I’ve already started planning, if you don’t know.
A: Oh my god, I don’t want anything from you, please.
B: Okay, I won’t give you anything. Your boy-friend will.
A: Huh! What do you think of yourself?
B: Good enough to give you what you want. You’ll have a boy-friend this birthday.
A: Shut up. Forget it.
B: Okay!
C walked behind the two of them. Quietly. Listening. And witnessing.
A did have a boy-friend that birthday. He was B’s classmate.
Purely coincidental.

Saturday, May 29, 2010

One moment, I really thought and believed I've lost interest in everything. Everything around me. And when I say everything, this time, I mean EVERY fucking thing, with no exceptions. I felt utterly disinterested in everything. I felt as if I'm indifferent to everything.
I opened this page. I wanted to write something, about something different. Yeah, a lot of people have been complaining about the monotone of my blog, and I've been telling them not to read, because it's not meant for them. Anyway, today, I thought, I will, have a change of topic. I hunted my brain for something NEW. Nothing came. But compulsion, is a thing, at times. I thought, okay, let me start with me. I can write about myself, for a change. The contradictory voice quipped "Don't you write only about yourself, already?". Well, yeah, still, I thought I'd write about myself. That would make for a good start. Introspection. About how bad a person I really am, and how I take pride in it, and how I use the "I am a bad person" statement to justify my otherwise-unjustifiable actions. I started the Windows Media Player, with all the songs. It irritated me, yeah, but still, I allowed it. And then, I changed the song that was playing to some song of mine, that I already like. First trigger.
My cousin came home to tell me how he'd cracked an entrance exam, without any preparation. I was too thrilled to keep it to myself. I had to share it, goddamn it. Okay, I just put it up on my Google Talk status. That was a compromise. I wanted to do more. But I started writing here, in order to distract myself. Okay, second trigger.
I opened Facebook, saw Sayak's blog getting recognition. More stuff. Yeah, I wanted to talk about it. And yeah, my disinterested mode died away. 3rd and 4th triggers, respectively. I mustered self-control. I didn't do what I wanted to do. One voice said "What's new about it? You've tried controlling before.". Another voice said "This is you. This is YOU.".
Now, almost a quarter of an hour later. I look back. Abhik, Disha, etc. Yes, I am curious. But I don't feel like showing it. I wish things would happen the way I want them to happen, without me having to make it happen. That's not un-natural, is it?
What do I want? No, I don't want the picture-perfect future I dream of. I don't want it. Why? Because I have the feeling that even if it comes true, something will be missing. So, what do I do? Before I make that picture-perfect dream come true, I have to hunt down the something that I feel will disturb things. I may feel that I've found it, I've solved it, but I have to check and double-check and confirm. That's impossible, within my mortal limits. I am not GOD. The other voice "Who says you're not God?".
What's the other option? Change the dream. Or at least, change a few things and people in that dream. Okay, that's do-able. I've known people, who'd fought worse circumstances and emerged victorious. I've known people who've picked up the pieces of one broken dream, and built another. I might say I'll try doing it.
But, this very page contradicts me. My words, my actions, my thoughts, none of them have "credibility". There's nothing about me, that I can point at and say, no matter what, this will never change. Seriously, there's nothing like that. The more I think I think about it, the more I realise it's credibility! I started this blog with a link that says "this--won't--matter". And, yet, it matters, now. My first post on this blog was a disclaimer that this blog won't do what my previous blog did. I'd vowed not to write what I used to write, the purpose I used to write for. What happened? Even the second post contradicts my first post, doesn't it?
In a way, it doesn't. In a way it does. No, I won't go back to my discourses on the universality of duality. It's a poor excuse. Even my dear friends like Sritama and Deshraj, and Payal, and Picco, who love me, know that I can't be trusted. I boast about it. Usually. Till I betray someone who matters. My own self. Like I did on this page. I betrayed myself. I forgot the treaty I'd made with myself. I have an explanation for that too. I'd tried getting a poison out of my system. It turned out, after a lot of events, and journeys, that I can't get the pison out of my system. I can go to Sikkim, I can have a beer with a cheerful 17-year old guy. But I can't change the thought process. And I can't change the only thing that's definite in all the indefiniteness. Even when I don't have connection (net, or phone) I have something to say, publicly.
In my own way, I justify it. I endorse it! My "Express yourself" campaign! I ask others to do what I do. I just don't tell them how much I regret it. I don't regret it always. That's my arrogance, maybe. But then, I say I don't have an ego. I can prove that I don't have an ego. Then, where and how does the arrogance come? The only explanation would be that both co-exist. Whether they co-exist in peace is a question best left unanswered. Yes, escapism. Something I've always talked against, I need to practice that myself, this time. An adaptation to changing circumstances, maybe. Voice within: What has changed? Nothing!
This is the reason why a conclusion can never be reached. I can't even tell you if the song playing right now, "Yaadein" is one of my favorites. Love and hatred occur simultaneously. Love and indifference occur simultaneously.
I can go on for ages. And prove how I bad my worse half is. And prove how I can never be definite. Not unless I'm narrow-minded. I might be bad, in every other way, but I'm not narrow-minded. But, then not being narrow-minded works against me. The opening of the "door" leads to outward flow of information. Worse, it leads to inflow of every random idea and possibility. No matter how much I believe in one particular fact, the belief in the exactly contradictory fact will never be nil and null.
Did I say, I'll talk about myself? Yeah, I did so. As usual. But I didn't reach any definite conclusion about what I am. If I really enjoyed being as bad as I am, then the last post wouldn't exist. If I'm actually, already, being something I don't like being, I must resolve that. Hope Sayak is right. Being a good person, is also a pursuit, not an achievement.

Monday, May 24, 2010

What does it take to say "It's okay", when nothing is? You've done that. I've done that. We've all that, I'm sure. But, if someone ever said that it takes strength to say "I'm okay", when nothing is even remotely okay, he/she was wrong. It doesn't take strength. How can it? It weakens you even more than you would be, without having to say so. Physically weak. Physically sick.
The tears that you don't want to admit, can't come out. They travel down from your throat, down to your chest, to your stomach, and then, it doesn't seem for a moment that they were weightless drops of some watery solution. It seems, as if a very thick iron rod is being forced down your thin and weak wind-pipe. The torment is so goddamn physical.
If it doesn't take strength, what does it? Because even after I've recovered from the "I can't take it"-trauma, it feels good, that I didn't trouble you with my burdens. The very next moment, I realize, that I did. I did. And, even you had said a hundred "I'm okay"s, a hundred "I don't care"s, and a hundred "I can't help it"s, in an emotionless voice. What took you to say so? Is it the truth of the statements? Yeah, okay, I agree. You really don't care, you're really okay, and you really can't help it. But, I'll tell you what, I'm not alien to dumping people. I've dumped a lot of people. Well, not a lot, some 2-3. And I know what it takes to dump someone, and actually, not even remember the person. Absolute indifference. Something, that you're still trying to achieve. I don't even know whether I should wish you good luck. Because, I'm trying to do the same too. You're just a little more stupid than I am. That why you amuse me. If you see a red paper in front of you, you don't even recognise that it's a red paper. You will, either, think it's just piece of the boring newspaper; or if you are in a worse mood, you'll try and delve deeper into the red, derive a hundred interpretations of the simple red paper. You're stupid. And I love that.
I had given you the facts. Here are the feelings. Thanks for making me cry. It feels fresh.
Moreover, I deserve to cry, unlike you. I deserve to suffer, unlike you. I have discovered another disorder. I have betrayed the people whom I love the most, the most. Start with my brother. Then you. Then, friends. I do it, and then justify it. And then, days later, the truth invades my wall of justifications, and the charge sheets glare at me in the face.
Last nigth I'd watched Transamerica on Dadabhai's recommendation. When it started, I though it was a movie that I want all those parents (mine, Disha's, Payal's) to watch it. But, it didn't turn out to be a movie on transgender people. It was a simple parent-son story, with the gender disorder of the parent being the backdrop. One of your-type-movies. Today, I watched Requiem For A Dream. It was recommended by someone from my class. It seemed to be a movie on drug-addiction. But, like all other drug-movies, this was a super-depressing movie. I wouldn't have watched it if anyone had warned me that my "comical state of dependence" would turn into the same "obsessive need" after watching it.
Anyway, the last scene of the movie coincided with the first scene of Part Four of Our Story.
I'll tell you something. I don't feel like sharing most things, when they happen. Like, now. But then, I will tell everything to everyone, later, because I'll feel like doing so then. I remember one of my status updates, with respect to this year's Holi. When the only person who matters is absent, everyone else matters. Impartially. That's why I'd dared to choose Diptyajit over Disha that day. Because the determining factor didn't exist.
It doesn't take strength to say "It's okay", when nothing is. It takes responsibility. Something, none of us lack. But someone does.

Saturday, May 22, 2010

Its high time I wrote something. Because its high time I stop pondering over absolutely useless stuff. I got a reassurance last night that my life's okay. Perfectly okay. More than perfect. How many people get what they want? I do! So, no complaints. Its 22nd May. And I still don't have the books or the syllabus of the exam that will start from June.
Once again, as soon as I start typing on this window, my brain clears. Lethargy is flushed out.
It doesn't seem normal to write down the noteworthy things that I did all these days. Because my Facebook badge shows on my blog page, and I update my Facebook status more than once a day. this reminds me of an SMS a friend had sent me few days back.
"Height Of Addiction:
Prisoner being taken to the gallows, to be hanged till death. Being asked on his last wish, he replied "I want to update my Facebook status!"
After a long time this was a forwarded SMS that I forwarded to others!
In this post, I'll be discreet. Don't ask me why. It's against what I usually do. But I'm not in my usual mood, I've realised that long. For a change, I feel like keeping things to myself.
I have had friends over at my place. Friends, and not-so-much-of-a-friend, both. Friends became more of friends, and the latter group became more distant. I didn't choose to make it happen. It just happened. I had kept my options open. I've been releasing restrictions on my rules, for quite sometime now. Strange, isn't it? Me and my rules.
So, what is the confusion about? Me, after all! I'm envied by people for having my priorities clear. But that was past. Sometime last year, the priority-determining factor vanished. And I lost all my sense of what's important-most, what's second-most-important, and blah blah. All I know is that I need ONE thing [worth 5 lakhs of indian currency) before I can do everything else. Write for contests, make use of the handy-cam, publicly, and all that I dreamt of doing since Class 5. I need an identity or that. Chuck identity, I can manage that.
studies, well yeah, I need someone strict for that. Like Disha. Who insulted me, and hit me on my head, every time, I couldn't do a program. I was filled with hatred for her, then. But, one thing that I've always boasted about is that I'm not an escapist. Though I badly wanted to, I didn't tell her what I wanted to: "I want to go home and study on my own". I wanted to do the next program as much correct as possible, so that her opportunities to insult me would decrease. The result was good. I need someone like that, who'll tell me that I'm dumb, so that I study harder, to prove that I'm not dumb. Here comes the problem. The issue of physical discomfort. The reason why I want to be on my own, at my home, even though I love staying outdoors. That's the confusion. When want to do something, and not want to do the same thing, equally, strongly. I remember the posts on Duality in my previous blog. I'm so used to it now. I'm filled with opposite desires. And I console myself with the concept that everyone is. And few people around me, agree with me; while most don't.
To say that nothing is absolute, can be both correct, as well as a poor consolation.
Is this called being discreet, no! Okay, I'm still me, good, I'm glad.
I have to focus on one thing. That's what the movie Kites re-asserted. That's probably the only reason I like the movie, despite it's faults. Unlike Upn In The Air, it didn't say something I already knew. It reminded me of something I'd forgotten. I'm grateful.
I think I got back my priority-determining factor few nights ago. Last night, the factor itself confirmed so.
I'll be on the right track, henceforth.
Confusion is the right track. To be confused is to keep all possibilities open. Otherwise, it may turn into over-confidence.

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

I won’t give a damn anymore to dates, I won’t study, just because someone has an exam. I’m not studying anyway. Every time I wake up, or I go to bed, I plan to study, but I don’t. I’d rather write things such as this, or comment on things such as this, written by others, or do something or the other, that’s not concerned with Economics, my major, even remotely.
The question is, why?
I just woke up half an hour ago, found that there is no internet connection. I started writing. No, not the C programs, but a few rhymed lines and a prospective blog post (this) and a short story.
It’s awfully hot and humid. Especially, inside my room, especially near my computer. And if there’s something I don’t mind doing in unpleasant climatic conditions, it’s this, not studies. There will be a time, in my next year, when I won’t have Computer Science at all, that I’ll be fascinated by the programming that I have in my present syllabi. But not now. It is something parents deserve to scold about. But then, if that’s happening with me, and I know other people with whom this happens, why should it be wrong? Who decides anyway? Aah, that’s always the usual question.
I had a bad dream today. The usual sad thing happened. Marriage. That wasn’t bad. When I found my hopes unfulfilled, I resorted to evil ways. I turned into the typical villian of my story. That was the bad.
I’m listening to Pearl Jam since last night. Their last album Backspacer. It’s good. Few songs are great, though.
I’m trying to figure if there’s anything on my mind that I’d like to get down here. There’s only one thing. My Tweet last night. I need money because I need a legally approved, self-approved indentity proof. I’ll tackle everything else in life, on my own.
For that matter, I think, I’ll get my identity on my own too. My parents have refused it right now. They’ve asked me try and be normal for one year, and then, they’ll probabaly think about it. I tried being normal for for more than a day. It felt abnormal. So, the cold war with Dad notwithstanding, I’m leading my own life. In my own terms. I don’t know if he’right when he claims that my lifestyle interferes with his lifestyle. Disha’s Mum once said that I have the right to make such a complaint too. The lifestyles, or the life-choices, whatever they are, that my parents (and grand-parent) made have interfered with my otherwise-normal upbringing. She thinks they affected me in a negative way. I think they affected me in a positive way. Back to the usual question, who decides?
I’ve been calculating. If I wanted 5 lakhs within 10 months, I’d need 50000 a month. That’s not possible. I’ve gotta postpone it to three years, at least. That makes it 16,000-or-something-a-month. That is again, not possible, but it’s still lessser, and more achievable. On second thoughts, where will I keep the money, even if I manage to earn and save 16grand a month, for 3 years? I don’t want to have a bank account under Twisha Mukherjee. I already have one, unfortunately, which is a joint account with my mother, fortunately! I have to use that account. So, the money I put in has to be earned by ways that my mother approves of. What better way than “winning”? By labour, not luck.
I’ll elaborate on my plan later. I made it last night, only. Once I’ve taken the frst step of the plan, I’ll talk about it here. I won’t win it under my name. I need friends, or brothers, who’ll volunteer to allow me to use their names, and later, give me the money, if won. That’s the third step. Long plan.
I’ve had Chanachur for lunch again. I’ll go to the bathroom and try to have a bath now. The last time I did, there was no water. The previous time, there was no soap.
And then, Anshul.

Firstly, I'd want to do a little bit of complaining. Every time I swear to be regular on blog, something happens to my computer. And Mobile-Blogging isn't still available in India, as such. Secondly, I'd make such a promise again. Exams are nearing. And so, I'll need more of "emptying my mind out". Looking back at my previous blog, I see that the highest number of posts have always been in the exam-months. Thirdly, yes, I'll start on the topic that the title promises.
He came into my life in the last week of January 2010. Very, very coincidental. The first day I met him, I was supposed to be his art teacher. I pressed the door-bell. Someone thin, dark, guy opened the door and said "Are you the art teacher?" I said "Yes." He was my first student. I'll explain the past tense used in this sentence, later. I was nervous, slightly. I was looking forward to it more than I was nervous. I entered, and saw a boy, a little more than foot tall, sitting on the floor, with toys all around him. He gave me a smile.
I was led into one of the bed-rooms. He was carried inside. The new drawing book, and the pencils were given. I did the thing that my first art teacher had done with me. I asked him to draw anything. He sat staring at my face, expressionless, for nearly half an hour, and then, I asked him what are the things he could draw. He replied "Everything". I asked him to draw a straight line. He drew crooked, slanting line. I asked him to draw a circle. He drew an oval-shaped, half-enclosed structure. I asked him to draw a square. He drew a rectangle. I asked him to draw a triangle. He drew one. Next, I asked him to draw a tree. He drew an elongated rectangle, and then a cloud over the rectangular structure, separated from it. I told him it was good. He was five years old. I could forgive him for the imperfection. I took the eraser, and erased the partition between the rectangle and the cloud, and explained a tree to him. We drew several tress together, thereafter. Soon, he warmed up, and said, that he wants to draw something on his own. I asked him what he wanted to draw. He replied "A house.". I said "Okay, go ahead.".
It was an elaborate building. A multi-storeyed, multi-windowed, equipped with lifts, staircases, collapsible gates, wooden doors, people on the terrace, and a clock tower. It was the cross-section of a building, and not what a building looks from outside. Yest, I was dumb-founded. The imperfection didn't matter. The idea did. Later that class, his mother, the person whom I'd talked to before coming, returned home from "office". She paid me 50 Rs. for the day's class. The next class onwards, it would be a new month, February, hence. To this day, I have that 50Rs in one of the drawers of my desk. It's my first honestly-earned salary. I don't deserve it. And nor do my parents.
I was contacted by another mother next month. Mrs. Sevantilal Shah. She wanted an art teacher for her two-year old son. I agreed. I went. It wasn't much of a class for me. I just had to let Mehan, her son, draw whatever he had to, sit with him for half an hour, drink coffee, and leave. They were rich Marwaris, living in a studio apartment at Landsowne Court. I had little to complain about.
Also, before one of the classes in February, Anshul's mother had called me in the morning and asked me to postpone the class. I hadn't inquired why. She had called me again, a while later, and told me, that the reason why she'd asked me to postpone the class was because some lady-tutor was supposed to come for him. But she had just backed out. I was asked if I knew anyone who could teach a student of Upper-Kindergarten, South City International School, at least 5 days a week. The condition was to be well-versed in Bengali (the preliminary alphabets, etc), and English (spoken English, because they didn't want me to converse with him in any other language). I offered myself, with the condition, that I can afford 4 days a week only. She agreed on a minimal fees of 1000Rs. I didn't mind. I just needed to kill time from 4pm-7pm. I just needed a distraction every weekday, from 4pm-7pm. I had to pay for it otherwise. I was neither paying, nor earning, here. My transportation costs and my fees cancelled out each other. Yet, I agreed. I enjoyed the experience of teaching the numbers, the English and Bengali letters to a kid, who still shits in a pan-shaped fancy plastic container.
A month later, Mehan vanished. I didn't get the fees for the 8 classes I'd done. I didn't mind. They just vanished. I hardly cared. I started giving Anshul 5 days a week. I started giving him 7 days a week April onwards, to make up for our simultaneous Sikkim trips, and my occasional Durgapur trips. I'm being paid 200 bucks more now, without having asked for it. I'd said before, it felt like a job-promotion.
Over the last few weeks, Anshul, and me, have been getting exceedingly attached to each other. Both Anshul and me. He screams and wails if his parents inform him any afternoon " Sir isn't going to come today." I have to talk to him personally to convince him that the reason I'm unable to come is either very serious, or for doing something for him. About me, I didn't miss him till April. In May, I've started missing him on the days I don't go to teach.
Why did I dedicate this post to Anshul today?
He wanted to cut my fingers with his pair of scissors today. (Because I wasn't allowing him to continue with his cutting all the new erasers into a 100 small pieces, and then play "Hansel-and-Gretel" with them)
I allowed him. I put my hand in front of him.
He did what he said he'd do.
I winced my eyes, and watched the patch of skin turn red.
He was laughing.
Then, slowly, blood oozed out.
More and more blood. Dark red.
Then he got all upset.
He ran out to the other room. Dropped all the things around, brought out a big box. Took out a roll of cotton wool and tore a chunk of it away.
I asked him to give it to me.
He nodded his head violently and said "No, you won't be able to do it. Give me your hand."
I obeyed.
With his little fingers, he wiped the blood away.
Then, he started hunting the box for a Band-Aid. He dropped all the medicines on the floor. I started picking them up, and kept saying "It's okay, Anshul; I don't need a Band-Aid."
Blood started oozing out again.
Frenzied, he tore three chunks of cotton wool this time, and tried to put all of them on my finger. He still wouldn't let me do anything myself.
The medicine-box fell upside down.
all the pills and tablets spilled out. The Band-Aids too.
I picked it up. He snatched it away. "I'll tear it myself. You can't do it."
He fidgeted with it. I tried to help him. He pulled away from me. Finally, he succeeded in taking out an-already-creased Band-Aid. He pulled my finger again. He stuck it around on the wound, well, not exactly on the wound, but covering it, at least. He wound it up so tight, that the 'wound' hurt more. When he wasn't looking, I opened it, and re-adjusted it a bit.
I still have it on my fingers, I didn't come home and change the thing, for the sake of hygiene.
Anshul is 6 years, 1 month, 2 weeks old.

Monday, May 3, 2010

My Computer>> Music (F:)>> English>> Enrique Iglesias>> Play All
*Do You Know*
Okay, plan worked. I did dream well. Disha, Tiyash, Sritama, Payal, Yealeena, they all were there in my dream. We all were busy doing some biology project (oh yes, everyone is in Xaviers’). Disha’s Mum was supplying us with good food, non-stop. Yealeena had a boy-friend, played by a strange, dark-complexioned, curly-haired guy. Sritama had her birthday or something. Never mind the details. There were numerous “Is it just me, or do you really have killing eyes?”-moments, and it turned out later, that it’s just me! Good dream!
*Addicted*
Is it just me, or do you really have killing eyes? I can’t get them out of my mind. Not even the view my dream favored me with! Ok, I’ll write about something else. My Dad and me are having the longest fight, in the history of our “living-together”, so far. It’s been more than a week now. It’s a strange state of things. It reminds me of some poem/story I’d read somewhere, which had the following description: Two men living under the same roof, yet never talking.
*Escape*
I’ve taken my iniative to talk. I just didn’t persist. I just woke up, and found two packets on the dining table, with “To Be Taken To Durgapur” written on them. Those candies for Bhai. Today morning, while Dad was in the next room, I quietly slipped out of the house, and sent him a text, “I’m leaving. Will be late.” When I returned in the evening, I gave him a call, asking him if he had an umbrella. He replied. But, moments later, when he returned home, there was no sign that it was the same person I’d talked to, moments ago.
*Wish I Was Your Lover*
I asked him whether I’d make him Maggi, I asked him if he had something else for his dinner, I tried my best to strike a conversation. He pretended not to hear me. That’s the same way he reacted the previous time I tried to start talking and resolve things. Last to last time, I tried to talk, in Sayak’s presence. It ended up in a bad scene. He screamed. I, though taken aback, tried to say something illogical in my defence. It was my bad luck. I’d though I’d locked the gate, but I hadn’t. The lock and the key had betrayed me.
*Little Girl*
I have gone back, but I still haven’t found the reason. I don’t remember exactly when he’s angry from. Shochi Mashi, once said, that it’s the time from when my friends have started staying at my place, that he’s unhappy. But I remember talking about Mal’s foot-prints, after the Disha-Mal stay. Next thing was Sayak’s stay. And he was already angry days before that. I can pin-point the day, which onwards, he’s angry, but I can’t find the reason. Phew!
*Somebody’s Me*
I’ve taken iniatives, so I’ve got nothing to worry. The reason why my efforts have been half-hearted, is because, this is a first-time. Never before have our fights continued during Shochi Mashi’s absence. We always made up the night Shochi Mashi left, with whiskey, and a dinner together. Today, err…last night, with all the monsoon-like rains, and cold winds, I can bet he wanted to drink. Because, so did I. Maybe he did, alone, upstairs, in his own room. I found the monsoon-nicotine combo intoxicating enough.
*On Top Of You*
Anyway, when I play-all-ed Enrique Iglesias, I had consciously decided to make myself upset. The best music to turn my mood off, instantly. “Addicted” threatened to do so, no other song came closer. I’m not exactly “smoking-with-eyes-closed-and listening-to-it”. So, I won’t be entranced now, I know. But, I have taken the risk of playing this guy after months, and I’ve survived it. No lump in the throat, no muscle-contractions, no limb-shaking fever, not even anything close to a bout of depression. I realsie I’m sad, but then, this is what I feel almost all throughout the day, I can’t call this sadness.
*You’re My Number One*
Wish I could go night-walking today. But my feet hurt a lot. I can wear socks, and the tie-the-lace shoes, the blisters won’t affect them. Let’s see if Picco’s awake. Else, I’ll just write. Or start studying. I’m quite in the mood now. No internet connection, yet. I’ve gotta wait till 10am tomorrow to post all this. And see what happened on Facebook last night.
*I’m Not In Love*
I won’t call Picco. If I go out today, I’ll go out alone, and I’ll be wearing my slippers. I can walk as slowly as I want, I can limp as much as I can.
*Hero*
I’m happy, I’m happy. Being happy is just not having to cry. Period.
*Hero* (I played it again.)
I’ll call Picco. I don’t want to be alone. It’s not that being alone makes me sad. It’s being alone that makes me realise that I’m sad. Actually sad. I had realised this on my way to teach Anshul today.
*You can take my breath away*

“Just when I’ve got loads to write, my connection takes flight.”
Filling in the unseen blanks, and disrupting the rhyming, “Just when I’ve got loads to write on my blog, my net connection deserts me.”
Okay, I’ll be posting this much later than I wish to. For the time being, it’s Microsoft Word.
Shauvik came in the afternoon, with his father (who looked anything but like Shauvik), and packed his books away. I was scared when the alcohol bottles under my bed made tinkling noises, as Shauvik scoop[ed his books away from the very place. Nothing happened though. Not a single sentence of conversation took place between the three of us.
I planned to walk upto a certain distance, to save money, and therefore, I left home early. I didn’t have to walk much, auto-s were available. I reached Anshul’s place early. And he was wide awake, and in a state of super-excitement, so it all went well. Note-worthy things at today’s class are:
1. He loves Green Lays.
2. He is worsening at the greater-than-lesser-than thing. He started measuring the size of the numbers on either side of the blank, in order to find out which number is greater, and which, smaller. He out-wits me, clearly.
3. I got my fees.
Anyway, I left his place at 5:30pm, exact, because the sky was darkening, and thundering, and I was scared that I wouldn’t reach Disha’s place in time. As soon as I came out in the open sky, I saw the horizon being ripped apart by a branched-vein of purple light. The dark grey clouds growled angry threats to the earth, and I, almost instantly, told myself, that I hate monsoons. This was, supposed to be a Kalbaishakhi, the evening spell of convectional rainfall that tropical summers experience. Not a “monsoon”. As I walked upto the auto-stand, the wind carried the flying debris and hurled it behind my back. Walking in a storm feels fun. This is how I always pictured apocalypse. Destruction all around (both arificial and natural), and me, walking down, amidst all of it, untouched, unscathed.
The wind gained momentum, I went an sat inside an auto, hoping that it would get filled up very soon. A boy of my age, followed me in, and kept grumbling about the weather. He said things like “Case ta ki holo?” and pissed me off by his very vocubulary. Then the rain poured in. Being at the edge of the seat, I pushed my head out, and let the rain fall on my face., on my closed eye-lids. Just when I was entranced completely, he called me and said, “Bhai, ei chhata ta naao toh, tomar dik ta dheke raakho, khub jol dhukchhe.”. I smiled with pity, and obeyed him. The umbrella blocked the heaven out.
Fifteen minutes passed by, with npo sign of any other passengers. The rainfall gained momentum. The sound of the huge drops drumming on the tight cloth of the umbrella filled the auto. My sore feet (sore from the blisters of my previous night’s walking) were outside the umbrella, and I let them have the luxury of being washed by cold water. We lost hope, even the auto-driver did so. We boarded the next bus that came along. By the time, I got down at the Jadavpur 8B Bus stand, it was 6pm, already. The rain had slowed down to a drizzle, and then started tossing down again. I boarded the second auto of my journey, and I got the left seat on the front. I hung my entire body outside the vehicle, and let myself get drenched to the skin, and the rushing wind give me goose-bumps. That’s when it happened. I didn’t realise how it happened. It started with distant monsoon memories. Happy ones, sad ones, neutral ones. It led to the memories of the recent past. Before I realised where it would lead to, and stop my un-controlled thought-chains, I found myself day-dreaming. I found myself yearning for new “memories” to be created. The goose-bumps on my skin were no more, because of the combined action of the wind and the rain. It was some distant black hair brushing my arm; some distant black eyes engulfing me in the depth of their intense looks; some distant delirious evenings, some re-lived, some dreamt, half ecstatic, half-fraught. Didn’t I know this would happen? Isn’t this why I’d decided I hate monsoon?
In feverish distress, I reached Disha’s place by 6:30pm, and, met “The Child Who Never Smiles”. It was an instant relief, a distraction from the distress. I befriended the 2-year old girl. It was true. She couldn’t smile. I suggested that she should be taken to a doctor, and her facial muscles be examined.
After some good food at Disha’s place, I left with her Mum, for Gariahat. We waited for a cab for about half an hour, and then called her Dad to come from his office, and pick us up. Meanwhile, the downpour, which had slowed down a while ago, came back, again, this time, with bigger drops, and greater speed. I held her umbrella out for her, till the car came. Then we hopped in.
Disha’s Dad informed us that the entire market at Gariahat has packed off, and shut down for the day. I told them to drop me off at Lord’s More, and be on their own way. I got down, and bathed to the fullest, in the gushing torrents. Much later, I realised that I had an open packet of cigarettes in my jeans pocket. I took it out. I borrowed a lighter, lit one, and tried putting the rest back together. The cigarettes were dry, but the paper packet had completely “disintegrated”. I bought one more packet, for the night, and took a rickshaw. The blister on my right foot got redder and larger, and didn’t let me have the pleasure of walking in the rain.
On the rickshaw, I was shivering down to my bone. My teeth chattered, my hands shook, I couldn’t hold the cigarette properly, let alone protect it from the water. I reached the welcoming warmth of my home after a few minutes, made myself some Maggi, with two extra packets of the Masala. Having had it, I sat down to write this, and then Picco came, and then, he went off for dinner, and I asked him not to come anymore that night. I’m going to bed, early, today. I’ll be plugging the finally-found-earphones of my other-wise useless phone, and listening to FM. I’ll fall asleep with some good music, so that the background music of my dreams isn’t “Ke Bin Tere Jeena Nahin…” anymore!

Sunday, May 2, 2010

Why don't we film a documentary on the Jadavpur 8B Bus stand? It's the noisiest place in Kolkata, I bet. The idea came up while waiting there for an hour. We saw a couple breaking up; within minutes, we saw a guy propose a girl; then, after a few minutes again, we saw an old couple fighting over what to buy. We saw the begging-kids, who prey on good-looking girls mostly. (seriously, they avoid other girls, and avoid all guys!) Even amidst the ear-splitting noises of rickshaw-horns, and faulty auto-engines, the "story" of the place goes on un-interrupted.
It's a copy paste, I wrote this to someone, in some comment, in reply to some other comment.
I wrote this. I didn't mean it. I'm not allowed to film anything on the Jadavpur 8B Bus Stand. It would be too indicative! Too personal. It's the place, where it all started. 11th June, 2008.
Damn, man. I haven't had alcohol for long! Picco is right.
Oh, well, I've decided something. Like the most important decisions of my life, even this was taken in the first few minutes after I wake up. I'll go back to maintaining a journal-like account, the blog-every-hour thing. It's better. When I can write two paragraphs on how I spent half an hour, why should I write one paragraph on how I spent an entire week? I won't waste. I will write.
Today is Sunday, 2nd May 2010, 1pm. I have started the day, by screwing things up. I wanted to return early from the customary night-walk; I didn't. I didn't want to miss teaching Anshul at 10am; I did. Result, I have to go to teach him at 4pm, which, again, I don't want to.
Shauvik will be coming to my place, in my absence, to collect his books. My absence, is unplanned, un-intentional, again. I have to go shop for Ma's birthday today. Even though I'd made Disha understand, I couldn't avoid her Mum from accompanying me to buy a saaree for my mum. I want to do this alone, I don't want anyone to accompany me. I don't want any of my friends, or their mothers to accompany me. One might say, Disha is not a friend, but then, does her Mom share my mum, with me? I can allow Bhai alone to tell me what to buy, etc. Anyway, the fact that she seems to badly want to take me saaree-shopping, makes me feel, that she must have found something, really good. Something, that she feels, she'll regret if she doesn't show it to me. So, with high expectations, I'll be doing it today evening. It's against everything I want to and believe in, but, I've vowed not to let my own desires and thoughts affect my judgement. Anyway, circumstances will be blamed, if I fail. Mum's birthday is a very special occasion. I'm super-sensitive about it (Someone other than Mum made it super-sensitive, else it would have been just sensitive).
Oh Gawd, I'll screw up today evening too. I know, I'll be furious, and I know I won't express it. And I won't be able to smoke, to swallow the anger away. Give me strength!

Sayak said "Plagiarizing is not my cup of tea." in some context.
I retorted.
This is what I wrote.
"Plagiarizing is everyone's cup of tea. That's the reason I'm never against it. The entire concept of education is plagiarising, legally. Why else are we made to learn A,B,C,D,E....? Why don't we have the task of inventing a new alphabet, ourselves? A new language, on our own? Anything. I read in a Russian book (Durgapur e gele mone korash, niye ashbo) that in a school, the students were given an assignment to design a new language (that could be decoded). It was an ingenius thing. Everything we learn, has been discovered/invented by someone else. Everything. So, plagiarising is more than justified."